


Hiddles in the Rain: a YOJA oneshot

by lettalady



Series: You've Only Just Arrived [3]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: A prompt from the Word Prompt Challenge that ties in to the YOJA storyline.





	Hiddles in the Rain: a YOJA oneshot

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**H** e saw the weather report. The potential for rain might dissuade the casual runner from entertaining their evening ritual, but not him. One can only remain indoors ignoring routine for so long. If he paces the living room another time more there’s the risk that the floor will begin to show wear along his path.

There’s the briefest temptation to ring up Bruce or John, but they made their loyalties clear in the days after Thanksgiving. No. He’ll only resort to their company at official events, at least until he finds steady footing again.  For now he’ll say goodbye to the casual comradery that had been allowed to develop before everything went sideways. He’ll see them again soon enough what with the upcoming awards show, along with…

He zips up his orange down-filled coat, losing his grip on the zipper toggle and nearly rapping his chin with his knuckles from the force of the movement. Emitting a frustrated harrumph, he rolls his shoulders, feeling the crack and pop of his joints as he tries to work some of the tension back out of his body. That’s another reason he needs to get out of the house. Enough of being cooped up.

Eyeing himself in the entryway mirror he gently reaches up to press the pad of his middle finger to his cheekbone, then down into the rough beard now adorning his jaw. His face is still tender in spots, but the bruises have faded well enough. There’s always the chance that there will be spectators but maybe the threat of rain will help with that. His gaze drops, and he scowls at the still visible crack in his lower lip. It would heal a little faster if it wasn’t winter, but it’ll heal given time.

Just like his heart.

Again he hisses through his teeth, driving his gaze up to lock eyes with his own reflection. Just like a previously unnoticed bruise he can’t help but think about her, can’t help but press and prod and test the soreness of the one muscle that currently aches more than any other.

“And perhaps before the sun goes down…” Rolling his eyes he shakes his head, dislodging himself from the moment with force, and then pats at his pockets. Wouldn’t do to lock himself out. “Keys… keys… Hmm.” There. There they are in his left pocket.

Anything missing? Ah-ha! He lifts his eyebrows, the corners of his lips almost following the motion but he remembers at the last second, the familiar pull at  _that spot_  on his lip prevents the smile from completely forming. His hat! Definitely needed, or else there’s little point to layering up. All the heat will escape from the top of his head.

No knitted things handy, but hmmmm. Oh – there’s one of his ballcaps tossed onto the hallway table. That’ll do. Snug. Well worn. Won’t do a thing to keep his ears warm but if he delays any further there’s the risk he’ll talk himself out of the whole adventure. Out – out! Time for a run! Well  _past_  time for a run, honestly.

Once he gets moving the crisp December air doesn’t have as much effect as it otherwise would. His gear protects just enough, and the added factor of expelling energy helping to battle back against the creeping chill.

Except there’s the matter of the dark clouds hanging overhead. It’s going to rain. There really hadn’t been any need for the newscaster to give the populous any hope on that matter.

Hope. It’s impossible to hold back the indignant huff that escapes him as  _that_ particular word rattles around in his head.

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Sunshine –  _highly unlikely at the moment_. Rainbows –  _potentially, after these clouds dump their contents_. Puppies. Chocolate. Pineapple. Coconut.

**_CABBAGE_.**

At the sound of her voice in his head his right foot finds the edge of one of the pavers and he stumbles slightly. It was her codeword for an unarmed intruder. Perhaps applying to his current situation by the manifestation of her existing within his head? Or is this his subconscious telling him that going out running now is a poorly thought out plan. Somewhere deep within there is a sequestered quarter of his Self voicing disapproval –  _extremities are the first to go_.

But he’s bundled up and if precipitation deems fit to fall it isn’t quite cold enough to ice or snow, and he needs this. So there.

He warms up quickly, even if his starting pace is off. Why is life like that now? He’ll be going along and something surprising will be off-kilter. Things he never used to think about now need the utmost concentration. It’s everything she touched, every part of his life that he shared with her. 

 _And she couldn’t reciprocate_.

Couldn’t. 

_Wouldn’t._

There is the familiar bite of anger. It’s what he’s been trying so hard to suppress, to surpass. Reading… Studying lines… Those didn’t work so he’s back to the tried and true: exercise. He pushes himself to move a little faster.

God, it’s cold. Cold just on the cusp of comfortable. It would be an entirely different story if he were standing still. But he’s not. Running. Ah – running.

A few minutes more and his breathing and pattern of footfall begin to settle, as does his mind. Why had he forgone this ritual for so long? Oh yea, the bruises. But the beard has taken care of most of that. And what do you know – it works as a decent substitute for a scarf, too. Decent, but not perfect. He should have grabbed one of those. 

Perhaps because he’s found a sort of rhythm, because for the briefest few moments he’s able to find something akin to contentment, it starts to rain. No warning period. No smattering of drops to alert the wary and allow them to dash for cover – sudden steady drops that quickly wet his outerwear.

Tom puffs out an empty laugh. Summer rainstorms are fabulous, pleasurable things that help you keep cool and prolong the run, so long as lightning isn’t involved. Rainstorms in the winter….

His down jacket isn’t weatherproofed and is soaked through within ten minutes. All of which he counts, along with his estimation of his progress along the route. He could have chosen to turn around and use those ten minutes to dash home. Could have but didn’t. He’ll just spend a little extra time in the bath warming up again and take extra care to soothe any early symptoms of illness if they present. Lots of honey tea, and lemon. Chicken soup. Shepard’s pie. All the comfort food.

He just…. He needs to stay out. Just a little longer. He needs to feel the long absent stretch of his muscles, needs the burning sensation in his calves, and to do penance for all that has happened.

Refreshed isn’t quite the word that describes the feeling as he finishes his run, slowing to a walk as he approaches his door. Cold. Bone cold. Oh-so-very-cold. He’s pretty sure that he’ll find that his reflection in the hallway mirror will have changed in the time he’s been gone. He’ll probably have frozen bits in his beard. Maybe.

The burst of warm air is welcoming beyond words. He eases out a sigh of relief as he shuts the door behind him. Now to get out of the wet things; a tricky task since he doesn’t want to drip water through the house. At least removing the jacket will allow the heated air to better reach his skin. That part is easy enough. Done and done. And slipping out of his squelching shoes. As for the rest… Maybe he should have tried a little forethought and brought a towel out to set on the entryway table. At least then he would have had a way to forestall the little rivulets of water cascading down his legs.

He stands, giving his head a shake and sending more droplets of rainwater flying as he harrumphs to himself, pondering his situation.

And then his eyes meet his reflection. Specifically, the rain-soaked hat atop his head. 

It’s hers.


End file.
